James Spader’s Smoking Cigarette
by GwenStacy
Summary: I just wanted to get laid. Chad. Complete.


**James Spader's Smoking Cigarette**_._

**Disclaimer **I do not own SWAC. At all.

**Rating** M (strong language, sex, drugs, the whole sha-bang)

**Summary** I just wanted to get laid. Chad. Complete.

**Playlist(found on my profile) **Let's Go Surfing – the Drums (to lighten the mood)

**Notes **I was thinking very deeply one night about how my room smelled a bit whiffy. Like, ew, I don't understand. What that has to do with this story is…nothing. I was just thinking about that.

Then I thought about a certain boy. I love this boy. I've never liked him, and at one time I hated him. Actually that was the first day we met, but whatever. I love him. So naturally I deliberated on the idea of what he was doing right at the moment. It was late at night, so I guessed he was staring up at his Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition poster which hangs above his bed. It's a picture of a very sexy woman in a bikini with a football. He's older than fifteen, but younger than eighteen, so I finally came to the conclusion he was thinking about sex. I blushed.

I then got the munchies, and wrote down the idea to this.

Then, today, I wrote it.

I hope everyone knows who James Spader is. I won't get mad if you don't.

My name is Indigo Willowsun, and I hope you think _something _of this not-for-children story.

--

What the fuck. I just wanted to get laid.

I just wanted to bang a girl in the back of my European car that barely has room for bangin'.

Those Jo-hos think that their so much better than me with their goddamn purity trinkets and their tight pants. Well, guess what? I'm Chad, Chad Dylan Cooper, and I haven't been able to wear tight pants in, like, five weeks, because I've been so freaking horny. Shit, man. It's, like, embarrassing. I can barely drive my car to work without the getting _excited_, because of all that _horsepower _and rumbling. Guys call cars 'she' for a reason, a'ight?

Aw, man and then work? God, I'm…yea I already said who I was, and of course everyone knows this sexy beast of a face. So work? There is always some girl who made it on set by entering some stupid little contest, and she always rushes up to me, this nameless girl does—who represents a whole dumpster filled with nameless chicks—and she starts gabbing away about how we're made for each other. On special occasions, she'll throw up her top and I'll get a nice visual for those midnight dreams.

I can have any girl I so desire.

Well, almost any girl.

Fuck my fantastic life. Fuck me right here in the sand. We'll have a _From Here to Eternity _moment. I'll be your Burt Lancaster and give you waves they'll have to censor again.

Didn't know I knew my film history, right?

The beach has always been a safe haven for me. I've surfed since I was, like, four and a half. I went to a few bonfires when I was still in public school back in middle school years. I had my first beer by the rocks. Haha. I smoked my first and last joint with some drunk Northern California couple who were trying to make it as 'rubber-tramps', or some kind of fucked neo-hippy. I smoked too much of something too strong, and threw up into the freezing water. I was too paranoid to do anything after that, and had to wait out the high.

It's not like I'm a 'bad' guy, you know. I have my moments of douche stardom. (some moments fabricated…yea, I'm talking to you Santiago! CDC is no puppy shover!) 'Bad' just doesn't describe me though. Handsome, guapo, breathtaking…those are some adjectives I can stand by.

Shit.

Shiiiitttt.

Augh…I was thinking about breathtaking and waves and bad. Jesus Christ! What's wrong with me? Do I have a disorder? One that makes it hard for me to get my little soldier to stand down? Geez, I'm feel like perv right now. Sitting in the sand in my tie and slacks with sunglasses on, and a nice bulge. This is not what the public expects out of Chad Dylan Cooper.

The public expects (uah) a lot out of me. They expect me to be this generation's blonde James Dean, while simultaneously wearing a purity ring like those Jo-hos I mentioned. Mentioning them twice is like sacrilegious. (Oh—aurgh) The American public should just forget about the wholesome thing, and learn a few fast facts about Chad Dylan:

I am not a virgin. Saying it that way makes me feel like a pussy, but it's true.

I drink underage. Is there a better way to write these things without sounding like a privileged teenage girl?

I buy porn. In a few months it'll finally be legal.

I have sex on a regular basis with girls who get Brazilians and fake tans. They taste good, so I have no problem.

I have a cocaine problem. That's a lie. I have a heroin addiction. Just kidding.

Number four is basically the cause of my problems at the moment.

Those attractive girls just seem to fall into my car, and I drive them back to my place. (One at a time of course. I've heard that three is a fun number, but I want to give each individual lady Chad's full attention, because they'll most likely never get it again.) We stumble in, lips locked, skin shiny, minds broken with thoughts like _I…oh…I want…come on…yes…okay am I…_, and hands grasping places that you wouldn't want your mother to see you grasping.

This lovely bitch of a lady is totally ready for you. I mean, me, but put yourself in my shoes for a moment…this might the only time you'll ever get to feel this successful. Her chest is heaving and her tits look heavy in her too small top, and they tell you that the room is a bit cold. Her legs are open slightly, inviting innuendo the body plays, lips swollen and naughtier than even her eyes. Those glint, but not glitter. She's too drunk to have glittering eyes.

She puts her fingers in the waistband of your pants pulling you closer. You unravel the knot behind her head, the one keeping her clothing up. God, she knows what she's doing, oh yea she does. You've heard all about what she knows. She says something about jobs and you know she isn't murmuring seductively about your TV show.

A flashback hits you in the groin. It's your dike gym teacher in seventh grade telling all the pubescent boys about sex. Ms. Butch uses words like penis and vagina. Semen and clitoris. Pubic and disease.

_Holy Fuck. _

It's over with Horny Bitch. You push her out the door without so much as a goodbye. Your pants didn't even get unzipped, but at the moment I don't mind I didn't get any.

Yea. Your little moment as me is over, sucka.

This has been my predicament for the past five weeks. All preparation, but no play.

What the fuck. I just want to get laid.

The ocean smells particularly whiffy today. Crap. I spotted Sonny Monroe making her way out of the water and she's in—nevermind. Don't think about it and nothing will happen. Don't think about…it. She's all wet, and—No. Don't think about it and nothing will happen.

"Hey Chad!" she yells happily. Sonny runs and dives into the sand beside me, and when she flips over her stomach is covered with sand. I have a strange urge to lick it off.

"Sonny."

Grinning manically at me she says, "I didn't know you made it out to the beach. Thought you'd be afraid the salty air would screw with the perfection of your hair."

"It's my secret ingredient to said perfection."

"You're so weird."

"Looks who's talking."

She huffs cutely. She's so innocent. I bet her list is totally different from mine. I bet number one is something like…I steal books from the thrift store. That's intellectual and down to earth.

"Chad…I think…"

"Cool. So do I sometimes."

"Shut up. Do you see my mom? Anyway…I think it's nice you come down here."

I look at for the first time since she seductively, er, rambunctiously sat down. Her eyes are brightly glittering. Her lips are swollen from the salt water and the way you lick them because of the salt. She has on a minimal amount of clothing, and a chilly breeze sweeps past us.

"Yea?"

"Yea. See you tomorrow!"

That's it.

We don't all of a sudden get it on in the sand. I don't want to. I don't want to touch her like all the other nameless girls. It's…different. I want her, but I know I can't have her. Sonny Monroe is that one girl I so desire, but will never fall into the backseat of my European car. The job she likes best is the one she has on TV. Sonny doesn't understand what she does to me.

She makes me think about a dike telling me what masturbation is when another slut's tongue is down my throat.

She makes me have an eternal boner for five weeks straight.

She makes it nearly impossible to drive my car.

She makes me want to wear a damn fucking purity ring to show her my allegiance to the United States of Sonny.

What the fuck. I just wanted to get laid.

Now I'm just a pussy sap sitting by the water watching a California babe I don't want run past me.

She'd scream for me, Chad Dylan Cooper, that's for sure.

But all I want is Sonny's smile.

--

**Note #2** Yea…I don't know why I wrote it either. Guy Cooper just was speaking to me and I had to write him just as he talked. Which was crude and rude. Disney wants nothing to do with this shit.


End file.
